


A Wolf in the Night

by Rey_KnightofRen



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Red Wedding, Female Gaze, Gen, Hopeful Ending, House Stark, Original Character(s), POV Female Character, The King in The North
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 07:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20327212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rey_KnightofRen/pseuds/Rey_KnightofRen
Summary: Catelyn Stark sacrifices her life to give her oldest son, Robb, a chance to escape from the red wedding massacre in Walder Frey’s banquet hall. Stricken with grief and shock at the loss of his mother and his wife, a wounded Robb flees to the countryside and is discovered by a woman, Olda, and her young daughter, Freya, who must decide what they’re willing to risk in order to help him. [A one-shot alternate retelling of the events at the end of Game of Thrones season 3]





	A Wolf in the Night

Robb Stark ran.

Despite his injuries, despite his crushing weight of grief, he ran as if his life depended on it — because it did. If any one of Walder Frey’s men caught up with him, it would all be over.

Perhaps it would be better that way, he thought, wiping the rage-driven tears from his eyes. He didn’t know why he was so desperately fighting to survive, when everything that mattered to him in this world had just been ripped away from him.

He should have seen Walder Frey’s betrayal coming. He should have known better than to trust that worthless, lecherous monster of a man. He accepted all the blame for the horrific and violent turn this evening had taken...only, it hadn’t been him who was ultimately forced to pay the price.

He was the one who had broken his promise to marry one of Walder Frey’s daughters or granddaughters. He’d insisted on marrying for love, and now his mother, his beloved wife and unborn child, and too many of his faithful soldiers were lying dead back at the fortress he’d fled from in shame.

_It should have been me…it should have been me...it should have been me…_

He beat himself with those words as he ran, each one driving a fresh dagger of grief into his heart.

They’d attacked his wife Talisa first, not even caring about the innocent child she carried. They stabbed her in the stomach, again and again and again, and it was an image he would carry with him for the rest of his miserable life.

Robb had wanted to sink to his knees and die alongside her, cradling her in his arms, but his mother stepped in. Determined that her son would survive to keep carrying the banner for House Stark, she’d provided a distraction, sacrificing her own life so that Robb could escape. He’d had to fight his way out of the banquet hall, and he’d left a number of bodies behind him, showing no mercy on this bloody night.

“Run, Robb, run!” Catelyn screamed at him, even as they’d cut her down. “Live, so you can avenge us!”

And so, even though he wanted nothing more than to die as payment for his mistakes, he ran. He would not dishonor his mother by wasting her sacrifice, but still, leaving her body — and the body of his wife — behind felt like a cowardly act of betrayal.

Just tonight, the three of them had spoken of the brighter future they hoped for. Now all that was gone.

Some “King in the North” he had turned out to be — his father would be so disappointed in him. Ned Stark had died trying to protect his family and their honor, and now because of Robb more Starks were dead.

He reached up to touch the wound on his shoulder, and as he pulled back his hand he saw it was covered in blood. The bitter truth was, he might still die tonight even if he technically “escaped.” He needed to stop the bleeding, but he had no idea where to go for help. He wasn’t sure he’d find many friends of the North in the countryside here.

And so, he’d do the only thing he could — run and run and run, until he couldn’t run anymore. Running was all he had left.

***

Something evil was afoot this night — Olda could sense it in the air.

Her husband, Jarl, had always mocked these premonitions of hers, and she’d long since ceased to speak aloud of her concerns. But that didn’t mean she’d stopped heading them.

Tonight she’d hurry through her outdoor chores as quickly as possible and then close and lock the shutters; she wouldn’t leave a candle in the window, either. Let her husband find his own way home, stumbling drunkenly through the darkness.

This evening should have been a welcome reprieve; her husband and son were headed to The Twins, Walder Frey’s castle, called to stand guard at a special ceremony. This meant Olda and her 10-year-old daughter, Freya, would be allowed to spend some precious time alone together, without having to take such care not to aggravate Jarl’s constantly ill mood.

One of Walder Frey’s daughters would be wed tonight — a seemingly happy occasion in this time of war. But when Olda had attempted to express her happy wishes for the couple, she’d seen a strange darkness in Jarl’s eyes, and heard a smugness in his tone that troubled her. Though Olda could not explain it, she knew something terrible would happen at this wedding.

Olda cleared the last of the dishes from the table, trying to ignore the weariness that settled in her bones. She felt much older than her 40 years. She was tired — always tired — the sort of weariness that ran deeper than the ordinary tiredness brought by a long day of work. No, she was tired of life itself.

She’d been married at 15 to Jarl, a man a decade older than herself. She’d never loved him, and she’d learned too quickly that he was not a good man. Every day in his home leeched a little more joy, a little more light from her life, until she’d become a hardened husk, simply surviving from one day to the next. Worse, her son was growing up to be just like Jarl.

Her only spot of brightness was Freya — sweet, beautiful Freya with golden hair and a laugh that sounded like music, who loved to dance in the sun despite the darkness of the world around her. Every day, Olda prayed that Jarl would not break their daughter’s spirit, as he had broken hers.

Though lost in her own thoughts, Olda had been listening to Freya all this time, ever mindful of her daughter’s safety. Freya was singing outside, some song that she’d made up herself, about a queen in a castle and the knight who’d come to court her. Olda was about to call her to come inside when abruptly, the singing stopped.

A flutter of fear in her chest, Olda almost called out to Freya but was interrupted by her daughter’s blood-curdling scream.

Olda immediately dropped the dish she’d been holding, letting it shatter on the floor. Her husband would rebuke her for this, and perhaps even strike her; she did not care. A plate was worth nothing compared to the safety of her precious daughter.

Olda ran for the door, her heart pounding, only to be met halfway by Freya, panic filling her daughter’s face.

“There’s a man outside!” Freya spoke breathlessly. “He’s hurt, and I think he might be dying—”

“Get inside!” Olda commanded, grabbing a knife from her pile of dirty dishes and simultaneously pushing Freya back inside the house. She didn’t know what was going on, but it could be nothing good. Not on a night like this...

It was difficult to see in the darkness, but in the gloom she could just make out a body lying facedown in the dirt outside her home. Her breath caught in her throat, and she had to fight the urge to run back into the house with Freya and bar the door. She knew her husband would have done much worse — probably plunging a knife into the wounded man’s back without asking any questions.

While Olda was afraid, she was not cruel like her husband. Her resentment of him — and her desire to be nothing like him — gave her the courage to take a step forward.

She walked towards the fallen man, still gripping the knife in case he tried to attack her. She would not strike first, but she would do what she had to in order to protect Freya.

“Who are you — what’s happened?” she asked, filling her voice with the same coldness she reserved for her son when he was bullying Freya.

The young man didn’t respond. He seemed to be hovering on the verge of unconsciousness, and Olda wondered just how grave his wounds were.

Gingerly, she turned him over and then found herself gasping. His body was caked with both dirt and blood, and multiple wounds punctured his tunic. She saw he was well-built, like a warrior, but he was also wearing the clothes of a nobleman — fine, expensive clothes, like the sort one wore to a wedding…

Her gut twisted as she thought back to her husband’s odd mood, and the premonition she’d felt earlier. This young man was too weak to tell her himself, but she knew he must have come from the wedding. And, just like she’d sensed, something terrible had happened.

“Mother, who is he?”

She noticed Freya hovering behind her, but in this moment she didn’t have the heart to rebuke her daughter for disobeying the order she’d given her to stay inside the house. Freya had a tender heart, and was no doubt worried about the man bleeding out in front of them.

“I don’t know,” Olda said.

“He’s dying, Mother — we need to help him,” Freya insisted with that childlike conviction of hers.

“We shouldn’t,” Olda found herself saying, even though she hated the words. Her husband would beat her or worse for daring to help a stranger and letting a man she didn’t know into their home. Even though he himself wouldn’t be back until dawn, after a night of drinking and carousing with other women.

“But look at him, Mother,” Freya begged, tears welling in her eyes. “Please.”

This was dangerous — oh so dangerous — but Olda had not the power to refuse. Her husband would be away until first light; they’d patch up this young man and send him away as quickly as possible. She could do no more, but at least it was something.

“Help me, then,” Olda said, looping her arms around the young man’s body and heaving him to his feet. “Let’s get him into the house.”

***

When Robb Stark finally opened his eyes, he was immediately aware how much every part of his body hurt.

His bleary eyes rove around frantically, as he tried to guess where he was at. The last thing he remembered was stumbling across a small farm in the countryside and then collapsing in the dirt, too weak and exhausted to even attempt to hide himself in the bushes on the perimeter.

He now found himself lying on a scratchy wool blanket on a table in what appeared to be someone’s kitchen. His confusion growing, he tried to sit up, only to have a woman forcefully push him back down.

“Don’t move, I’m not done with the bandaging,” she said a bit gruffly though not unkindly.

“Who...who…” He tried to finish “who are you?” but the words stuck in his parched throat. Instantly, a little girl was pouring a small sip of water into his mouth.

“Thank you,” he rasped, still trying to orient himself. He had no bloody idea where he was, but at least he’d determined that these people probably weren’t about to kill him. Not that it would have mattered if they were.

“He’s so polite…and handsome!” the little girl giggled, and the older woman (probably her mother) shot her a sharp look.

“Shhh, he’s awake now and can hear you!” she said, which just made the little girl giggle more.

Robb felt his gut twist, as he thought of his own sisters, Sansa and Arya, whose childhood had been cut short by the trauma they’d experienced.

He looked up at the woman as she resumed bandaging his wounds. She and her daughter shared the same golden hair, and the same blue eyes. Well, not quite the same — the girl’s eyes still sparkled, but in the mother’s eyes there was only a dull sadness. Probably not unlike the look in Robb’s own eyes now.

“What happened to you? Are you a knight, or a prince?” the little girl asked him in such a kind, soft voice that Robb wanted to tell her everything. He didn’t care about hiding his identity; he was long past having any concerns about his own safety.

But then a wave of nausea hit him, and he had to shut his eyes as the room began to spin round and round him.

Maybe even with his wounds being bandaged, he had already lost too much blood. He didn’t care anymore. He wanted to embrace the darkness, and join his family in the world beyond.

He had nothing left to live for, and so he didn’t even fight as the darkness took him under.

***

Olda sat in the dimly lit kitchen, watching the young man as he slept to make sure he didn’t stop breathing.

Freya had long since gone to bed, though not by choice. She had decided the young man was indeed a “lost prince” and she wanted to be there when he woke up again. Olda did not think that was a good idea; they still didn’t know who this man was, and it would be dangerous to get too attached. She didn’t think he was one of Walder Frey’s men, but you could never tell.

She’d have to wake him up soon, if he didn’t wake on his own; she could not risk her husband finding him lying on their table, and she still had to allow enough time to clean the blood off the wood.

She’d tried not to think too much about the wounded man (again, it was best not to get too involved), but she couldn’t completely stop herself from speculating.

She found herself inventing various stories about him, that might explain why a finely dressed but gravely injured man had stumbled to her door. Was he a servant or a lord or a soldier? Why were his eyes so burdened with grief? What was he fleeing from? Was he trying to get home? Did he have a home to—

The young man’s eyes suddenly fluttered, and Olda sat up a little straighter. When his eyes finally opened fully, she saw they were clearer than before, un-addled by any kind of fever or delirium. She was convinced now he would make a full recovery.

They both remained silent for several awkward moments, as if uncertain who should speak first. Olda felt it was safest if she let him take the lead; she didn’t know whether he could be trusted.

At last he broke the silence and said, “Thank you for helping me.” There was no joy or relief in his tone, however; he was thanking her because he felt honor-bound to do so. This was not a man who was truly thankful to be alive.

Olda simply nodded. “It was the right thing to do. I...wish I could help you more, but I’m afraid you’ll have to be going soon. You can’t be here when my husband returns from Walder Frey’s castle.”

For a brief second, that lifelessness left his eyes, replaced by a sudden, burning rage that made Olda flinch. Suddenly afraid, she quickly added, “I promise you, I’m no friend of Walder Frey myself. Please don’t harm me or my daughter — we only wanted to help you.”

“I wouldn’t lay a finger on you or your daughter,” the man said bitterly, his tone hard as the stones beneath her feet. “I’m not a monster like he is.”

“Did you come from the castle tonight?” Olda asked, a lump in her throat.

“Yes.” He paused, then seemed to arrive at some decision. “I’m Robb Stark.”

Olda felt as though someone had punched her in the stomach. She stared at the young man in wonder and horror.

Robb Stark...the King in the North — lying here on her kitchen table! That could only mean…

“I came to the castle for my uncle’s wedding, and then Walder Frey butchered my family and my men. He—” Robb’s voice caught, and the anguish in his eyes nearly broke her. “My wife was with child, but that didn’t matter. They killed her. They killed my mother. I should have died there too.”

Olda didn’t know much about the politics of the wars going on around her. She didn’t have an opinion on who was best suited to sit on the Iron Throne, or whether it was better to side with House Stark or House Lannister, or any of the other seemingly numerous contenders. But the murder of innocents — that was wrong. That was a line no one should cross, in either peacetime or wartime. And tonight, her husband had been a part of it. He’s participated in a massacre that was beyond redemption or forgiveness. Any scrap of respect she might have still felt for him finally burned away, and she never wanted to see him again.

Olda clenched and unclenched her fists, allowing the anger to work its way through her. She thought back to her own pregnancies, of what it had been like to carry her precious children and then hold them in her arms. Her husband had been the opposite of a doting father, and she hadn’t known many men who were. Yet even though she didn’t know this Robb Stark, she could tell that he would have been different. This was a man who would have loved his child fiercely, and now that opportunity had been ripped away from him.

All her life, Olda had been passive; she’d married Jarl because she’d been told to do so, even though she didn’t want to. She never rebuked him or acted against him, and she’d never told her struggles to another living soul.

But tonight, she finally decided to rebel. If she helped Robb Stark, her life would most definitely be in danger. She would be putting Freya in danger too. Yet she could not allow Freya to see her as a coward, as someone who was too afraid to stand up for that which was right.

Olda would be passive no more. She would help Robb Stark escape, consequences be damned.

“I wish I could keep you here longer, so that you could rest and heal, but both our lives are in danger,” she said softly. “So what I’m going to do is this: I will give you as many supplies as you can carry, and I’ll show you the best path to take into the woods to avoid being discovered. Get as far away as you can, and recover your strength. And then, I want you to come back fighting, and bring justice to this land that needs it so desperately.”

Robb Stark stared at her intently, yet it did not make her uncomfortable. Unlike many of the men she’d met (and even her own husband), Robb did not look at her like she was an object or a mere piece of property. And yet, she could see her words had not moved him as she hoped they would.

“What is there left to fight for?” he asked with a bitterness and weariness that broke her heart, too.

Olda couldn’t believe she dared to do it, but she carefully reached up and took his hand in her own, squeezing it tightly. “I know what they took from you, and I know the grief that comes from knowing you will never get it back. I...I too have lost children: children I carried but did not live beyond the womb. I grieve for them every day. But I live so that I can help Freya.

“Westeros needs you, Robb Stark. You are a good man. There are not enough of those around. Do not surrender to the darkness and let men like Walder Frey win.”

Robb shut his eyes, and she feared that he was trying to lose himself in unconscious oblivion once again. But then, she felt him slowly take her hand and squeeze back. His grip was weak, but determined.

“Then I’ll fight for you and Freya,” he said. “And I promise you, on what little honor I have left, that Walder Frey is going to pay. For everything he has done to my family, and to people like you.”

Olda nodded, and as she looked at Robb, she felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time: hope.

***

Sure enough, Olda’s husband and son returned just before sunrise, drunk on wine and their own sense of power, though only she could see how hollow it truly was. Intermixed with the crude jokes were their boasts about the role they’d played in what they were apparently calling the “red wedding.” As if the murder of two innocent women, including one with child, was something to boast of. The thought sickened her.

Without speaking, Olda set a plate of food on the table in front of them, and continued watching in silence as they shoveled the food into their mouths, using hands that were still covered with blood and dirt. They offered no thanks, but she wasn’t surprised; she had long since given up on being shown any appreciation.

Although she could feel the tears welling in her eyes, she bit her lip and remained staring straight ahead, stone-faced. She refused to cry in front of them, for they did not deserve her tears.

Her son — once a bright, happy boy — had been turned by his father’s influence, convinced that the best way to “be a man” and succeed in this world was to give in to the violence and brutish behavior her husband had learned, in turn, from leaders like Walder Frey. Her son was lost to her now, and she would grieve that forever.

Still, while she had lost the battle for one of her children’s futures, with her actions today she hoped to achieve a different victory. Her daughter — yes, there was still hope for Freya, her precious ray of light with a kind spirit their harsh environment had not yet snuffed out.

Underneath the table, she reached out and squeezed Freya’s hand, both a gesture of solidarity and a spark of defiance. She could tell that Freya too was troubled by her father and her brother’s words, and though Olda dare not speak aloud, she would let Freya know that mother and daughter need not surrender to the despair and the darkness.

Olda thought of the battered young man she had bandaged and sent fleeing into the woods less than an hour ago — a secret that Freya would help her keep. They would give their lives for this secret, if necessary.

Some might mock her for putting such faith in a man whose spirit was so utterly broken. She could not fathom the weight of the grief he carried, and she knew he had a dark journey ahead of him.

But Robb Stark was not beaten, not yet. She chose to believe that somehow, he would survive this, and one day he’d come back to avenge the wrongs done to his family and to end the blight upon the world caused by men like Walder Frey.

She remembered the words she’d whispered to him as they’d parted, both their eyes brimming with tears: _Fight for a better world, Robb Stark._

In Westeros, you only had power if you had been born a man, and too many abused that fact. But she’d heard enough stories to know that the Starks were different; Ned Stark had been a good man, and she sensed that from his son as well. By saving Robb’s life, perhaps she had helped shift the balance of power in a subtle way. She wanted her daughter to be able to stand on her own two feet one day — not powerless, not battered, not broken. But valued and respected.

She peered out the window and saw the sun rising, a bright, burning hope in what was otherwise a grim dawn.

_Run, Robb Stark, run…_ The words became a silent mantra as she endured her husband and her son’s droning voices. No longer King in the North, perhaps, but a Wolf in the Night. Bringer of vengeance and carrier of hope.

Perhaps, by saving his life, she could accomplish that which she could not do alone: set the world on fire.


End file.
